Doc got up at 3pm yesterday and we hung out before he went to work. Hence, this feels like a Monday. When actually, it is his Friday.
I didn’t bake last night. I opted for meds/bed. So I’m trying to wake up enough to do it before Doc gets home. Greet him with some nice, fresh banana bread.
The grocery store, as a special treat, has an official Mickey Mouse waffle iron. Now, these are around $60 at the “kitchen stores”. The grocer has them for $20 this week. Of course I want one. I don’t know if I will get one, but I put it on the shopping list online. I’m just a little curious about it and the price difference. I mean, I know they don’t cost $60 to make. They just charge that because Disney. But how did the grocer get a hold of them at that price? And do they have enough for me?
Ack! I hung the laundry! It’s 37 out there! Horribleness. Absolutely unacceptable. Coldest November on record in decades. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Where, exactly, is the El Nino? The one that was going to keep us overcast and windy, but warm? I am waiting. Sure, maybe a little impatiently, but there was a big deal made about it, so I was kind of looking forward to it. It’s going to warm up ten degrees starting today and through the weekend. I haven’t dared to look past that.
This is the weekend things are going to happen. Plants are going to get transplanted. Dining room tables are going to get cleared off. Christmas decorations are going to be made and put up. No more fucking around. First weekend in December. He has to know the longer he puts it off, the longer it’s all going to stay up.
Still no cable news. In fact, news is all that is on now, so I’m going to turn my music on.
Funny story. Doc came home the other morning and I was listening to Big Country, as is my want, and he says, “No, every time you listen to this Scotsman, you get depressed.” And I laughed, and told him that was only sometimes, that I was listening to dance remixes, and one couldn’t be depressed to dance mixes. He still insisted I turn it off, he hates Big Country. He hates all of my music. All of it. And he hates all of the music that he introduced me to that I liked. It is very hard to have something in common with this man. He hates, or is negatively triggered by everything. I need to get him to a doctor. Get him out of this funk. Chemical intervention is called for. He doesn’t have time or energy to radically change his lifestyle. Once he is on a mood stabilizer, he will be better able to organize his time to make changes to his lifestyle that will eventually make the med obsolete. That’s the kind of guy he is.
I just want him to open his ukulele. And learn how to play it. I wonder if he would ever back up any of my happy poems with it. That would be so incredibly cool. He could even do it separately from me recording, if he doesn’t want to be there when I record (he hates hearing me read – the acting gets to him, he doesn’t get that it is acting and he thinks I am reliving the trauma of the piece). It could be fun. We could be a youtube sensation.